Love is not a Victory March
by Chairman-Meowith
Summary: So what if John had just been shot in The Great Game? tw death, blood, major character death


It's a Cold and it's a Broken Hallelujah

Sherlock stared at John, not believing the evidence of his eyes. He was lying on the floor in a pool of his own blood. He'd jumped on Moriarty for him. The sniper had shot instantly, killing his in a few moments. Sherlock looked at his hands, double checked the clock. He wasn't dreaming, yet it felt as though he was. Moriarty had just laughed, walked out. End of story. Muttered something about the loyalty of pets. He should've left it alone, should have listened to Moriarty's warnings. But he hadn't. He'd wanted to impress everyone. John included and now He was dead. _Your fault, your fault. _There was a small voice whispering or screaming in the back of his head. Sherlock realized he was kneeling beside a body, a very dead body that was no longer John. _No longer John._ He thought he'd been winning. He thought he'd bested Moriarty, he was wrong, so, so wrong. His thoughts were racing in random circles that he couldn't control.

"NO!" He screamed suddenly, the sound ripping through him, "NO!" The sound was primal, involuntary. "Come back!" He demanded, still screaming. He grabbed John's arms, no the body's arms and shook him. "Come back dammit! I cared," There were tears streaming down his cheeks. Grief and rage making his face an ugly mask. "I still care," Sherlock didn't mind that he was weeping openly. What did it matter any more? He had let him tear down his walls and this was what he deserved. He had only made his life harder and this was the penance he had known he was doomed to pay. He had known it from the start, tried to keep him out. Failed miserably and so he deserved every sob, every shudder that wracked his thin frame. "You made me care," his voice cracked on the last syllable and he fell forwards, onto the body, holding John. He was still warm and he could almost ignore the blood soaking through his shirt. Almost ignore that there was no rise or fall of his chest. Almost pretend- but no, it was fruitless, He was dead. Sherlock didn't care, he just clung to him and wept. He deserved every ounce of pain because he had dragged John here and he had cared. So love was only a weakness after all. He'd remembered too late. Too late to save anyone.

Hours later, Sherlock felt someone prying him off of John's cold body. He just shook his head, clinging more tightly to his friend.

"Sherlock, He's dead," was the measured remark. Mycroft. Sherlock let his brother pull him up, his eyes red, hands shaking Or maybe his hands were still and the rest of him was shaking. He didn't know, didn't care. Mycroft didn't try to hug him, or say anything to comfort him. Mycroft knew better. He knew the gestures were futile, would only highlight how very commonplace John's death was. People died. That's what people do. He kept his hand on Sherlock's back as he led him from the pool. "You're staying at my house for a few days until we find you lodgings," he informed his younger brother. One of Mycroft's security guards draped an orange shock blanket over Sherlock who instantly ripped it off. No, it was too painful. Scenes flashed before him. John laughing with him at a crime scene after He'd killed a man. The shock blanket he'd worn then. John leaning over him when he was sick. John, John, John. his face repeated itself over and over in his mind and Sherlock almost wished he would start crying again. Anything to alleviate this pain. The feeling that his chest would burst. He wanted to go home. Sherlock was sure that somehow if he went back He'd be there, He'd be alive. "Sherlock get in the car," Someone was speaking to him, their voice sounding from the depths of the ocean. He obeyed, knocking his head. The pain doing nothing to bring him from his sorrow. It was his fault. He'd forced him to move in with him. He'd dragged John on cases. He'd asked him to leave the flat. It was his fault He'd died. Sherlock sat in the back of the vehicle, he didn't even know what kind it was. Sherlock laughed hollowly. John had deserted him and so too it seemed, his powers of deduction.

Mycroft looked over at his younger brother when he laughed. He withdrew a bottle from his coat, shook a few pills into his palm, forced Sherlock to take them. Sherlock just sat, the pills in his hand, staring blankly into the distance. He didn't care about what Mycroft had given him. John was dead. He felt like screaming. "Sherlock take the pills," the same distant voice. He raised his hand to his mouth, inserted the pills. Hoped they'd kill him. Instead he found himself engulfed in a sea of darkness. Sleep. He welcomed it, dreading the moment when he'd wake and remember the truth, but preferring its soft, welcoming depths anyway.


End file.
